Keep Your Pants On
by Gina44144
Summary: Sam and Dean go on a midnight Meijer run during which Sam gets some unexpected news and Dean’s just trying to keep his pants on.


Title: Keep Your Pants On

Fandom: SPN

Author: relli86

Rating: PG

Words: 1,912

Characters/Pairings: Gen. Sam and Dean being silly boys. Depending on the current timeline (are we in July/June?) this could count as a very near-future fic.

Summary: Sam and Dean go on a midnight Meijer run during which Sam gets some unexpected news and Dean's just trying to keep his damn pants on.

Disclaimer: Sadly, I do not own the Winchesters, no matter how much I may want to.

Author's Note: If you don't know what Meijer is, basically it's Wal-Mart with food and the same degree of sketchiness. Really, I couldn't resist. This HAD to be done. More explanation at the end.

They're in a 24-hour Meijer at midnight, surrounded by college students buying Solo cups and ping pongs and the random family on their weekly shopping trip. Sam's following Dean through the kitchenware aisle on a hunt for pants and booze – not necessarily in that order – when "Sugar, We're Going Down" starts blaring from three steps ahead of Sam.

Sam's hand goes instinctually to his back pocket, feeling around for the phone that's not there.

Dean spins around, glares back at Sam. "Why the hell is there emo rock coming from my ass?"

Sam closes the distance between them in one long step, yanking on the back of Dean's jeans and pulling his brother toward him. Dean rattles around inside the jeans, and Sam gets an entirely unwanted view of Dean's yellow Sugar Babies boxers.

"Wear your own damn pants, Dean, and it wouldn't be a problem," Sam says as he sticks his hand into dangerous and uncharted territory, pulling his phone out of the back pocket of his commandeered jeans.

"That's why we're here, dickwad," Dean sneers, wrenching the waistband of the jeans out of Sam's grasp and gathering the extra material in his left hand. "And it's not like it's my fault."

"Will you get over it already? I said I was sorry," Sam says, hitting the flashing alert on his display screen to view his new text message.

"You're supposed to be the smart one," Dean complains, "And you thought that taunting me with, 'Liar, Liar, pants on fire,' while hunting a literalist demon was an okay thing to do. Those were my last freakin' pants."

Sam laughs because, now that Dean's no longer on fire, it's pretty damn funny. He looks at Dean again, swimming in reluctantly borrowed jeans, and remembers all the years of hand-me-downs. It's poetic justice really. "They don't even fit you," Sam says, waiting for the denial Dean perfected once Sam hit 6'2" at 15.

Instantly, Dean lets go of the material caught in his hand and the pants almost go down with it. He hikes them back up and insists – despite all evidence to the contrary – "Yes, they do."

Sam lets out a short, breathy, you're-so-full-of-shit laugh and points to the bottom of the jeans. "Right. I think your cuff came undone."

Dean looks down and drops to his knees, angrily rerolling the cuff on his right pant leg and exposing the rest of Meijer's customers to a full view of his ass.

Sam gets a glimpse at the boxers again and realizes why they look so familiar. "Jesus, Dean," he says, "I left you alone for five minutes. You're supposed to buy those before you put them on."

Getting up from his kneel, Dean smirks at Sam. "You think I'm paying for these? They were on the 90 clearance rack. I'm doing these people a favor. Printing the receipt would probably cost more than these itchy things. It's just too bad you came back before I found the jeans." His smirk turns into a full-on smile. "Besides, if you'd man up and go on the side of the road, you'd be able to stop my thieving ways."

Sam ignores the last dig – so what if he likes to be surrounded by linoleum instead of wildlife when he's taking a piss – and shakes his head at his brother's unrivalled ability to justify petty theft.

Turning his attention back to his phone, he reads the four words on the screen, stops, opens his mouth and closes it, reads the message again.

He can't process this information. It must be Zach's idea of a joke because this seems pretty much damn near impossible. Sam can feel Dean's eyes on him, but he's hypnotized by the words, can't stop looking at them.

Deciding he needs verbal confirmation, Sam scrolls through his contacts list and hits Zach's entry, waiting impatiently for him to pick up.

After five rings, Zach answers, but all Sam can hear is screaming. And it's holy-shit-we-did-it-screaming and not holy-shit-we-suck-screaming so it's really all the confirmation Sam needs. Above all the yelling and hysterical crying, Sam can make out Zach's voice screaming, "24-23! 24-23!"

Sam lets that wash over him, waits for the disbelief to become knowledge. As it sinks in, he feels something burst inside of him, some kind of adrenaline rush that has nothing to do with ghosts or salt or running for his life from a pissed off werewolf.

"Yes," Sam says, softly at first, but gathering intensity. "Yes!!!" he screams at the top of his lungs, running past plastic cups and waffle irons before making it into the main aisle. He sprints down the aisle, hands raised in victory above his head. He weaves in and out of the displays lining the middle of the aisle, hooting and pumping his fists, not caring that people are looking at him like he's insane or drunk or a lethal combination of the two. Through his own screams, Sam can hear Dean's footsteps chasing after him.

He makes a sharp right through a break in the displays and heads back up towards kitchenware.

"We won!" Sam starts to scream, wanting to share his joy with the world. "We won!"

He feels someone slam into his back, and he goes down hard, cheek meeting tile. The fall knocks the wind out of him, making it impossible for him to speak.

"What the hell, Sam?" Dean asks from where he's sitting on Sam's back.

Still unable to speak, Sam twists his arm backward, awkwardly holding out his phone to Dean. He can hear the beeps as Dean scrolls through the phone's display, and the air rushes back into his lungs when Dean gets off of him.

Sam rolls onto his back and stares up at his brother.

Dean's still reading the message, a confused look on his face. He absently holds a hand out to Sam, and Sam takes it, using Dean to lever himself up.

Sam can see they've drawn an audience. A sprinkling of shoppers are sticking their heads out from the safety of the side aisles, probably wondering if the crazy men have stopped wrestling in the middle of the store. Fortunately, their interest already seems to be dissipating – Sam figures that, so close to a college, this sort of thing is a regular occurrence at Meijer after midnight – so Sam looks back at Dean.

"Holy shit, Sam," Dean says, "I thought you were having some kind of mobile seizure."

Sam shakes his head. "No seizure, just really, really excited." He processes Dean's words again and frowns. "A mobile seizure? That's not even possible."

"You were spazzing more than usual. What am I supposed to think? Felt like I was in some bad porno version of _When Harry Met Sally_." Dean holds the phone out to him. "What the fuck is USC anyway?"

"University of Southern California . . ." Sam begins, but a voice cuts him off.

There's a barefoot little girl, maybe five years old, standing four feet away. She stares up at Dean, shaking her head in disapproval. "My daddy says that you're not supposed to say those kinds of words."

Any normal person would have been disturbed by a child so young being up that late, but not Dean. Sam figures they'd taken enough of these midnight runs themselves when they were kids to have it not faze Dean.

Dean looks down at her, one eyebrow raised and his eyes taking in the little girl as if inspecting the strength of his challenger. "Yeah, well my dad said you're supposed to wear shoes. Guess we both ought to listen better."

The little girl glares at Dean. "I least my shirt doesn't have ketchup on it."

And yeah, Sam can't help but think, that's not ketchup. Or it could be. He can never be sure with Dean.

"I least my shirt doesn't have a cow on it," Dean counters.

Hearing that, Sam's instantly ashamed that he always loses insult matches with Dean. He starts to think about wearing that dog shirt again – no matter how girly Dean claims it is. If a five-year-old can take it, so can he.

The little girl looks Dean up and down, then settles her gaze on his face. "I can see your underwear," she informs him, "and your pants are too big."

And Sam laughs and laughs and forgets for the second time in five minutes how to breathe.

Dean opens his mouth and shuts it, glares back at the little girl. "Shut up. They are not."

"Whatever," the girl responds, turning on her heels, "I win."

As the girl walks away, joining the woman looking at children's clothes a couple yards away, Dean shouts at her, "Isn't it past your bedtime, you little monkey?"

The girl doesn't even look back, and that just makes Sam laugh harder, doubling him over.

Dean bumps him in the shoulder. "Knock it off, jackass, and tell me what the hell is going on."

"Well," Sam says, still hunched over, "you just got burned by a five-year-old girl."

"Ha ha," Dean says, "You're a freakin' comedian. And unless you want me to pull out the holy water, you better explain why the hell you just acted like a fifteen-year-old girl at an Abercrappie shopping spree."

Nodding, Sam straightens up, puts a hand on his spastic stomach, and tries to stop laughing long enough to explain.

"It's college football, Dean," Sam says between laughs. "Stanford played USC tonight and we won. It's unbelievable."

"That's great," Dean responds, his voice completely devoid of appropriate enthusiasm.

"USC is like the Yankees of college football. They think they're some kind of dynasty and Stanford – _Stanford _– beat them." Still Dean offers no sign that he at all cares. Sam dives back in, unable to let the magnitude of this fade away. "Let me put it to you in a way you'll understand. Stanford was projected to lose by 41 points."

The raised eyebrows tell Sam that Dean's somewhat impressed at that. "Well, did you bet?"

"What?" Sam asks, scandalized. "No."

"What good are you then? You have to pull your weight around here."

"Dean, I'm not going to bet on college football."

"Whatever, man, it's a respectable profession. Just don't get my hopes up like that again."

Sam can't help the smile that creeps onto his face. "You've got one flawed definition of respectable." He pauses, ". . . And profession."

"So?" Dean asks, "The money all spends the same." Dean readjusts his hold on the pants and gestures towards the clothes racks. "Can we get some pants now? Before we get thrown out."

Sam smirks. "I don't know. You look kinda cute like that. Like you're wearing your big brother's clothes."

"Son of a bitch," Dean grunts as he leaps toward Sam, but Sam sidesteps him easily and reaches out a hand to grasp Dean's pant leg. With one quick pull, the jeans are around Dean's ankles, bunching at his feet.

"Oh, hell no," Dean says, turning around to make a grab at Sam.

Before he can get a good grip, Sam takes off down the aisle. He hears a series of thuds and crashes behind him and turns back briefly to see Dean sprawled on the floor, entangled in an entire display of "My Little Pony" t-shirts, his legs trapped in the too-big jeans.

Sam laughs and keeps on running, knowing that Dean – pants or no pants – won't be far behind.

A/N: The USC-Stanford game Sam refers to took place on October 6, 2007. Sam went to Stanford, and if he had any school pride, he would care immensely about this. Because it's awesome. You hear that Sam? This has nothing to do with me still being pissed about the Bush Push. Nope, nothing at all. Okay, maybe a little. Here endeth the incoherent college football rant.


End file.
